


Eating up the miles

by bluebells



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anthropomorphic, Human (male) Impala, M/M, Season 7 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 03:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I drank up all the blood and the spilled beer. I ate up the miles even after my tyres should have shredded because <i>you</i> asked me to. I kept your prayers. I held all those girls you fucked into me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eating up the miles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nileflood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nileflood/gifts).



Three days.

It's been three days since Dean woke up and tore a path through the city looking for the person who stole his baby. When he opened the door to their motel room that morning, there was a void in the parking space where the Impala should have been. He damn near choked when his heart leaped to his throat.

“I swear I didn't move it,” Sam disavowed, and then the search was on.

They didn't look twice to the person leaning, dazed, against the motel reception's office window.

“Dean.”

The weak call stopped Dean in his tracks, keys digging into his palm. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the early morning sun, but the young man in the faded, too large jeans and torn, sleeveless shirt didn't ring any bells. And Dean would have remembered a face like that. Almost reminded Dean of himself in younger years.

“Do I know you?” Dean asked, impatience sharpening his tone.

“It's me,” the man said, a hand pressed to his stomach in a way suggesting he was going to be sick.

“Who? Do I _know_ you?”

The man looked out of breath, expression confused and pleading as he searched Dean's face. “Dean....” He pointed to the empty parking space with a trembling hand.

Dean's hands clenched by his sides. He had the man up against the window with a fist curled in that filthy shirt in the time it took Sam to wonder from, “Dean?” to “ _Dean!_ ”

They didn't usually go around assaulting half-starved strangers, but if this guy knew anything about his stolen baby, Dean was going to cut it out of him, stupidly blue eyes or not.

Holy shit, they were really blue.

“You know who took my car?” Dean growled.

The man winced, hands curling around the fist in his shirt. A shirt which looked familiar for some reason... like the rag Dean kept in the Impala's trunk to wipe the grease from his hands or to dry the water after a heavy rain to stop the water from letting her rust. A horrible feeling sank in Dean's stomach as he looked to the man's faded blue jeans and found the tear across the seams, still stained with Sam's blood from two jobs back.

“You stole from me,” Dean snarled, almost nose-to-nose with the man. “You only get one chance at this: _where_... is my car?”

Fingers curled around his and Dean wondered what he was doing wrong that he couldn't read a glimmer of hesitation in those dark, blue eyes that continued to plead with him. Instead, when that fringe fell in the man's eyes, matted with sweat, Dean found himself studying the guy's dark head of hair, true black like... just like....

“Dean,” the man squeezed his hand. “It's _me._ ”

There was no freaking way.

-*-

For three days, Dean's been searching for the unspoken evil that twisted his beautiful baby into that awfully (unnaturally) pretty man. Dean thought fate had its last laugh at their family when it ripped Bobby away from them, but the universe had a way of continuing to surprise him.

Sam swore he'd never seen his brother hit the books so hard. Anything to avoid the way that other guy kept looking at Dean.

“Would you stop that?” Dean muttered, threatening to tear the page in his tense grip.

He couldn't see the other guy seated behind him on the bed, but Dean could feel that heavy gaze on the back of his neck, rustling the short hairs at his nape.

“What?” the man asked. They still hadn't settled on a name for him. He refused every suggestion from Daryl to Larry to Bob and even the respectable suggestion of Steve. He'd pulled a face at every one until Dean groaned and Sam pointed out that they couldn't just keep calling him 'dude' if they had to get to him in a crowd.

“I have a name,” he'd said defensively, and looked to Dean across the table in the diner.

Dean had scowled and let his mashed potatoes reflect his displeasure. He had a name for the Impala, not some guy who wore her paint like a commercial from Herbal Essence in the artful mess of his hair, whose sharp jaw and cheekbones were a mocking callback to her long, proud lines. There was nothing classic or nostalgic about this guy. Everything about him offended the suggestion that he was remotely related to Dean's car, let alone that he was her realised in human form.

This man was not his baby.

“Stop staring at me,” Dean threw over his shoulder, flipping the page. “Watch some pay-per-view, read a book, I don't care, just quit staring.”

It was unnerving and it made Dean think of other friends he hadn't had the chance to bury who'd done just the same.

A tense quiet beat in the air between them. The bed springs creaked.

“Fine.”

Dean sat up in his chair when the motel door swinged open. “Where the hell do you think you're going?”

“Out.” The guy cocked a dark eyebrow at him and something warm stirred in Dean's gut at the steely challenge. “I can't stay idle. You might think it's okay to sit on your ass all day, but I was built to move. I was made for sun and asphalt and diesel, not to rust in some dank motel room or under the cover of a garage for a year while you try playing house.”

Dean stared at him in surprise. “You remember that?”

The guy huffed a laugh and nodded at the understatement. “Oh, Dean. I remember everything.”

The sun was setting. Sam would be coming back with their take-out any minute. They both agreed that coffee for their new company wasn't enough for three meals a day, no matter how much he insisted it was the closest thing to what he really wanted, but couldn't have while he was made from skin, flesh and bone.

“You're not going out there alone,” Dean said. 

He was met with amusement. “So, now you believe I'm your car?”

Dean threw up a hand in a shrug and the expression aimed his way narrowed to a thin look of contempt. “I believe you're something, all right.”

“Well, when you figure it out, come find me.”

“Whoa, whoa – no way!” 

But he was already gone. Dean cursed. No way was he leaving that guy out where people could key him. What if he came back in that metal body with marks?

Dean grabbed his leather jacket. “Wait up!”

-*-

Dean was surprised when they ended up walking to a petrol station, but on reflection, it made sense. His baby had been low on fuel when they pulled in those nights ago. When she was still metal.

She. He.

Dean stole a glance at the tall, lean man strolling beside him in Dean's borrowed clothes that didn't dwarf him as wholly as Sam's wardrobe. Once every while Dean had to stop himself from reaching out to pull him back to the pavement because he kept drifting towards the road.

He looked sheepish when he realised what he was doing, moreso when he caught Dean watching him.

“I just... I'm used to someone else steering me. There.” He nodded to the passing stream of early evening traffic and Dean heard the confused longing.

If this guy was what he said he was, Dean understood. His baby belonged on the road.

Dean watched him sigh in relief when they finally walked under the pale fluorescence of the petrol station. Dean watched him breathe deep, his shoulders rolling out lines of tension as his head fell back, eyes shut like he was basking in the sun of Eden.

Dean frowned. “What's that?”

The guy looked back at Dean with that quirked eyebrow (and sometimes it was like looking into a mirror). His hand moved to the thin, white mark on his neck that had Dean's attention.

“This?” Dean nodded, and he smiled, thin and smug. “Five years ago. Head of a crowbar. You couldn't get all the dents out. No hard feelings.” He shrugged at the horrific realisation that must have shown on Dean's face. That was... Dean had been grieving and – “I've handled worse. And you always straightened out my hurt.”

“I did,” Dean agreed, without thinking through the admission. It seemed to please the other man.

“And I know you'll figure this out. You always take care of me, just like you promised.”

Dean felt the smile tug at the corner of his mouth before the warm spring in his chest made him squirm it down with a bite on the inside of his cheek. The blue gaze on him was knowing, but the smile didn't seem so mocking anymore.

“It's okay, Dean. I know you better than you know you.”

Dean felt the frown pinch again. “And what does that mean?”

“It means no marshmallow moments. It means I know you won't talk to me the same way you would if I didn't have this face and a voice to talk back. You don't see me when you look at me. I'm just some douche with all your car's memories who wears these clothes better than you do.”

Dean scoffed under his breath and promptly choked on that air when the other man stepped in close, eyes narrowed in challenge. Waiting for Dean to call him a liar.

“I remember the day you convinced John to take me home. Once you were born, I knew it'd been you, even without the years of sweat and metal.” 

As a car, he obviously hadn't picked up on the nuance of human niceties. Like it was rude to search someone so close unless you were ready to throw down. Dean's imagination caught the scent of worn, familiar leather when the guy pushed a hand through his thick, dark hair.

“I drank up all the blood and the spilled beer. I ate up the miles even after my tyres should have shredded because _you_ asked me to. I kept your prayers. I held all those girls you fucked into me.”

Dean swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly dry. He waited for the catch, for the demand lingering in the air, but, when he was met with only pointed silence, Dean was forced to ask the question, “So, you've got my laundry list. What are you saying you want?”

It could be the flicker in the fluorescents overhead, but Dean thought those eyes darkened as he tripped over his final word.

The guy made an abortive motion like he considered reaching out to touch him.

“I just want you to remember who – what I am. I'll still hold your secrets.” He closed the distance, bringing them almost chest-to-chest. Dean inhaled sharply, caught off guard by the cocktail of petrol and leather and the abruptness of steel he couldn't explain. “And you know I won't break.”

Dean forgot to breathe. “You....”

“Me.” The cocky smirk that curved his mouth was the hungry growl of the Impala personified and, in that moment, Dean believed without a doubt. 

He'd never been so damn proud and turned on at the same time. His whole body flushed with heat and he was aching in his jeans.

“I'm still--” But Dean cut him off, nodding.

“Yeah. I know.”

_You're still my baby._

The grin that answered him was brighter than the gleam off the polished chrome grill.

-*-

If Dean had his way, his baby deserved five star cotton thread counts and every languid minute of his night. As it was, Sam was back in their motel room that barely nudged the accommodation ratings above livable and time was a luxury they didn't have the patience to spare.

Dean pressed the other man's hands above his head to the cold concrete walls out the back of the petrol station. The groan that rumbled through him under their kiss felt just the same as the thrum of that engine, tingling warmth in his chest, steadying him.

“Fucking missed you touching me,” he growled, arching up when Dean ground between his thighs. 

Dean kissed him, hot and messier than he meant to be, but that was apparently just how his baby wanted it. His baby. Hell. It really was.

“Even like this, God, I love your voice.” Dean left his hold on those wrists to reach down and mould that ass to his hands, noting with pleasure when those legs fell further apart.

“You know what I love?” The breathless pant smothered in Dean's neck with kisses dragging back to his jaw, his chin, before nipping at Dean's lower lip. Dean groaned when his baby licked into his mouth, filthy hot, wet and hungry. It left him gasping. “You. Under me. My grease in your skin. Your hair. Your hands were always so fucking careful.”

Goddamn, Dean was never going to be able to do a repair without getting hard again. He gritted his teeth, aching to relieve the pressure in his jeans. His hands weren't so careful at the moment with their death grip palming and squeezing the flesh in his hands, bringing him back to meet Dean's hard and lazy rut. “Do you always swear this much?”

“I'll cuss as long as it takes, Cowboy. I've been waiting for you for forty years.” 

Dean let his hands be guided down to the first tempting glimpse of that pale skin under his Metallica shirt. His thumbs pressed into the valleys of sharp hipbones, earning him a shiver, and his hands splayed firmly on those hips when they bucked into his hold. 

“Come on, Dean. Do what you do,” his baby taunted, cheek scraping along Dean's shallow stubble. He thrust his erection against Dean's through the denim, earning a pained groan. “Want you to hold me and drive.”

He -- wha?

Dean looked into his face, shocked, but was only met with a smirk that was quickly growing familiar. Those dark eyes glittered back at him in the dark, and Dean was fighting with buttons and zippers in the next moment, pushing the other hands away when they tried to help and only ended up tangling through his as more hungry kisses were stolen from his mouth, and he kept losing focus.

“Cut it out,” he snickered, batting them away for the fourth time, and realised the other man was laughing, too.

It was a gorgeous sound, just like the rest of him. 

Dean listened to the trucks blare past on the far road, the wind rustled through the trees, and he pinned his baby to that wall with every inch of them leaning flush as Dean squeezed and stroked and stripped them both in his hand, encouraging every moan and whimper from that gorgeous mouth just to drink it down and feel him tremble under the buck of Dean's hips.

“Dean, Dean....” his breath hitched, body stiffening, and Dean swiped a kiss against his ear.

“Got you. I got you, baby.” No sooner had he said it, the other man buried his face in Dean's neck with a whine and rocked against Dean as he came in his hand. 

Dean shivered on the knife's edge through the other man's lingering tremors, forehead to Dean's temple. Dean felt the fingers slide between his own, bucking as he winced from the too-good-almost-there pain of the upwards stroke, tight and slow; down, twist and back again, like the tongue that licked between his lips before his baby proceeded to _fellatio his tongue_ , and Dean lost it.

Jesus Christ he loved this car; this thing, whatever it was, whatever shape it took because it was his and it was perfect. It didn't occur to him he might have breathed any of this into the warm air between them until arms were circling his neck and he realised he was nuzzling kisses into the amused curve of that filthy, gorgeous mouth.

“You're perfect,” the other man murmured, an echo, and Dean chalked it up to the post-bliss high that he let himself believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [on Livejournal](http://users.livejournal.com/_bluebells/67560.html).
> 
> Five hours ago, I didn't know there was a sub-movement worshipping Ian Somerhalder as their human!Impala. All I can say is, ['hot'](http://thosefuckingangels.tumblr.com/post/17273058265/ian-somerhalder-as-the-impala-idea-comes-from). Most of the inspiration was taken from [this post](http://xabbet.tumblr.com/post/18628856705/reawakenthedream-dean-feeling-awkward-around), but I would never have lost all this sleep to this insanity if it wasn't for nileflood. If I faceplant in front of the office tomorrow from exhaustion, I'm coming after you, Sir.


End file.
